Kiss of Death
by 16pennies
Summary: He will scold her very well indeed, once she is awake and warm again. And then he will fall to his knees before her and cry and plead and beg that she never ever again would rather jump in the lake than stay with him in his little house! [inspired by a tumblr post: what if Erik had to perform CPR on Christine? easily the most morbid thing I've ever written; be warned]


**A/N:** Shout out to Lal for making the tumblr post which I then turned into this morbid angst-fest!

 **Trigger warning** that while this isn't explicit horror or violence, there is **disturbing imagery particularly pertaining to suicide and drowning**. Take care, folks.

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His silly little songbird! Thought she could evade him, did she, by running away in the middle of the night? She ought to have known better, foolish thing! She should have known that night and day are all the same down here, five storeys beneath the living.

He will tell her this! He will scold her very well indeed, once she is awake and warm again. And then he will fall to his knees before her and cry and plead and beg that she never ever again would rather jump in the lake than stay with him in his little house..!

Her nightclothes are heavy with water, her sopping hair sticking to his wrists and hands, tangling in his fingers as he drags her to shore, the siren in reverse. He talks to her as he gently lays her on the bank, nonsensical things about how stupid she is and how much he loves her nevertheless. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at him.

The water is freezing and her skin feels as cold as his as he searches for a pulse with his fingertips, apologising for his touches as he probes her wrists, her throat. He's never touched her before. Not like _this_. Nothing beyond a gloved brushing of fingers as he helps her into and out of the boat or down a particularly steep set of stairs. But this! This is flesh on flesh and she feels like—like icy satin, or the softest marble. He can't fathom it. He can feel delicate bone and ligament beneath his fingertips, all the perfect little components of her. It will drive him insane, he thinks. He can barely remember where they are, what he must do; the feel of her bare hand in his is very nearly too much.

Ah, but her fingers! The ends are turning blue! He thinks he might feel a shadow of a heartbeat; he must make it stronger!

But… ah. He has seen this down before, but to do it himself is another matter entirely. Who has he ever had to save?

Lacing his fingers together, he presses his palms just to the side of her sternum, where her heart should be. She's still a little warm there and he sucks in a breath at the way her soft figure gives way beneath the pressure of his hands. He presses down sharply, once, then frantically glances at her face to see if he's hurt her.

Her eyes are still mostly closed.

He presses again, and then again, feeling the rhythm of a heartbeat that should be there of its on volition. It must hurt, he thinks, the way he's pushing so hard. Surely that will wake her up soon?

But she isn't stirring and he doesn't like the way he can feel the water inside her, hear it sloshing in her lungs.

Sitting back on his heels a moment, he looks her over, hears the mocking tick of a silent clock running out. He can get her to breathe, he thinks, but is he allowed—?

He must be! He must, for she needs her air to sing, and then when she is awake he will beg her for her forgiveness, beg her forever and be glad that she is alive for him to kneel before.

Ever so carefully, he moves to crouch by her head, not minding the unforgiving rock against his bony knees. His movements are slow and cautious as he gently eases her jaw open a little wider and brings the other hand to gently touch her nose.

Her _nose_!

Oh, he really is quite out of his depth, he thinks. He knows many things, but this configuration of cartilage and skin is something with which he has no experience to speak of. How firmly must he press to sufficiently close the passageway? He has broken men's noses before without much effort. He certainly doesn't want to break Christine's!

His fingers dance around her head, not sure whether to study her or run away before he gets in trouble for touching that which he is not allowed— _never_ allowed to touch.

He can hear his voice talking to her, telling her how sorry he is and begging for forgiveness and for her to wake up. She's cold, getting colder, and the fear drives him to carefully pinch the sides of her nostrils together, inhale deeply, and gently seal his mouth over her colourless lips.

The breath he forces into her is like a scream; a scream of ecstasy at her nearness, of shame for taking what isn't his to take, and of fear, of wanting her to pull him closer or push him away, to _wake up_. He inhales again, dragging air into his lungs to ferry into hers. Her lips are blue, slack and unmoving against his as he breathes for her. He can feel the way her lungs expand, rattling.

He isn't sure how long this is supposed to take, isn't even sure how long he's been trying. It is difficult to measure time by her heartbeats when he cannot hear them.

So he tries to breathe deeper, to push her heart more firmly. For a moment he thinks he's done it, he feels something twitch beneath his palms, then realises in agony that it's one of her ribs fracturing. He is only breaking her, now; tearing apart what's left.

He's crying, trying to shove sobs into her windpipe as the last of her warmth dissipates into the air. All her pretty blushes have gone; she is instead all cream and purples.

As Erik pulls his papery thin lips away from hers, releases his own corpselike fingers from her nose and looks her up and down, he knows his own body, this living cadaver, has given her the kiss of Death.


End file.
